Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man

He moved through to the kitchen, where he found a small refrigerator that held a glass jug of buttermilk, two eggs, a bunch of apples, and a wedge of cheese. The buttermilk smelled fresh. In the living room he saw the monogrammed cigarette lighter on a table.

Okay, here we go.

Archer sat down in a chair facing the front door and waited. He checked his timepiece. It was almost four in the morning and he had never felt further from sleep. It was like every nerve in his body was doing the jitterbug.

Thirty minutes later the beams from a car’s headlights cut across the front window. He sank down a bit deeper in his chair. He heard the car door open and close, and listened to the high heels poking into the sidewalk until their owner arrived at the front door. A key was inserted and the door opened, and there she was. In the illumination of the porch light he could see that she wore a narrow-brimmed, angled hat, a dark green dress that flared out from the hips, and a white, short-waisted jacket, long white dress gloves, and green pumps that lifted her impressive height ever more skyward. Her purse hung over her forearm. She looked like a knockout, thought Archer. And that cut both ways.

Archer eyed the purse and thought about the two things of importance that might be inside it, because he knew they weren’t in here.

She closed the door behind her, flicked on a switch, and dark became light.

And Archer went from invisible to revealed.

She froze and then gasped, her hand flying to her chest, which was heaving.

That sight made Archer feel better.

“You scared the hell out of me. How did you get in here?”

“Back door was unlocked.”

“No it wasn’t. I distinctly remember locking it.”

“You missed my meaning. I unlocked it.”

Her fearful expression faded and was replaced with a look that under other circumstances might have intimidated Archer. But not tonight.

“Explain yourself.”

“I need a drink. Couldn’t find one in here. Got your flask?” She opened her purse and looked inside it. “I’ve got rye. Is that okay?”

When she looked up, Darling was staring down the barrel of the .38.

She coolly eyed the gun. “If you don’t want the rye, Archer, just say so.”

“Yeah, I wish a funny line would cut it, Wilma. Have a seat and take it real slow. Anything fast or sudden from you would not be healthy. And hand your purse over.”

“What, are you an armed robber now? It doesn’t suit you, Archer. Admit it, you’re a Goody Two-shoes.”

She tossed the purse to him. He caught it in one hand and set it on the table next to his chair while he watched her perch on the settee across from him and cross her long legs at the ankles, her gloved hands in her lap as prim and proper as could be.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?”

“You never should have given me the address of this place, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that was a mistake.”

“But it’s a nice place, Wilma. Real nice. Cost a pretty penny, no doubt.”

“It’s not mine. I’m just renting it for a few days. And you told me to come here.”

“Starting off with a lie? Not the way I want this to go.”

“I’m not lying, Archer,” she said smoothly.

He pulled the letters from his pocket and tossed them down on the table that sat between them.

“People don’t have mail addressed to a place they’re renting for a few days.”

She looked at the letters with her name and this address on them. Archer could see the wheels spinning as she tried to think of a plausible counter to what he’d just said. But then her expression finally showed that she had come up empty.

“So what?” she said.

“Yeah, so what. And tack on to that the bouncer at the nightclub near here knows this as your place.” He opened her purse and took out the flask. “And so what that on the drive to your place after Sheen got croaked you asked for a drink from my flask when you had this one in your purse. But then you couldn’t drink from this one without getting very, very sleepy. Like Sheen when you slipped him the mickey. You lured him to the room on the pretense of showing him a good time. You let him ride you till he had his fill, and then he went beddy-bye courtesy of what was in your flask. You got dressed and left and someone else came in, maybe Hank and/or Tony, and they introduced a hole through Sheen’s heart that he didn’t have before.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Archer.”

He cocked his head at her and waggled the. 38.

“You think I could sleep with you, knowing that somebody was killing Wilson? I’m not a monster, Archer.”

“You got me out of Midnight Moods for one reason only. When we were sitting on that terrace you looked over my shoulder and your gaze froze on something. You told me it was the old guy with a taste for young gals. You said he and Kemper were doing a deal. I asked him about that tonight. He doesn’t even know Kemper and he doesn’t do deals. You lied to me, Wilma. I don’t like that.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Because who you really saw over my shoulder was whoever killed Sheen. They were giving you the high sign. And I told you I was going to go look for Sheen. You couldn’t have that. So what did you do? You invited me to your place for a little fun between the sheets, and I forgot all about Wilson Sheen until you got the call the next morning. And since I was with you at all relevant times, you got yourself a prime alibi to boot. It was on the fly and neatly done. I’ll give you that.”

She took a cigarette from the bowl and lit it. “You’re nuts.”

“Am I? I’d explain it all like they do in the detective novels, but it would take too much time and you already know what I’m going to say.”

“You’re making me out to be some criminal.”

“You made yourself out to be one by committing criminal acts. Funny how that works.” He took out a pillbox from her purse and withdrew a pill from it. “I saw this pillbox in your purse before, but it was empty. And that same bouncer asked me if I was a customer of yours. A customer for what, I wonder?”

Darling just stared at him, lips pursed, legs still primly crossed at the ankles, the smoke in her hand.

“You sell drugs, Wilma.” He looked at the pill. “Amphetamines.”

“You know about amphetamines, Archer? I’m impressed.”

“Army used to give them out like candy in the war. Made you not feel tired even though you hadn’t slept for days. Made you not feel hungry so they didn’t have to stop the fighting to feed you. Made you act like a lion when you felt like a mouse.” He put the pill back and returned the box to the purse. “And you’re also selling to the gals in your office. That’s why they could work dawn to dusk and move like someone had stuck their fingers in a wall socket. Must pay well. You got the place in Bay Town, this place here. A new car. Nice clothes. Yeah, what a success you are.”

“Everything I have I worked for.”

“Oh, yeah, you did. And you said you went to Midnight Moods regularly. I’m betting you sold to the gals there, too. Like Ruby Fraser. You sold her pills. And I’m thinking you were the one who fingered her to be the patsy in all this. Put her at the center of this phony blackmail scheme with Kemper, and then they cut her throat out. And then you set up poor Wilson Sheen and removed any alibi Kemper has for Fraser’s murder. You probably got that info from one of them while at the office and passed it along to the appropriate party.”

“You weave a good tale, Archer. Good thing for me the cops only care about facts.”

“Let me give you some then. They killed Dr. Myron O’Donnell tonight and made it look like a narcotics hit. In the process, they slit the throat of a harmless old man who spent his days going up and down in an elevator reading the Gazette and swigging his cheap rum after a really shitty life. I look down on folks who kill other folks, unless you happen to be in a war. So that makes you an accessory to two more murders, Wilma. Even if they don’t send you to the gas chamber you’re getting at least twenty-five to life.” He checked her purse again. “Where’s the Derringer?”